Collaboration
by Animorphgirl
Summary: What was going through Joe Morelli's mind when he asked Stephanie to team up with him in "One For the Money"? CUPCAKE. Consistent with canon. Rated for language.


Disclaimer: Stephanie Plum and Joseph Morelli are the property of Janet Evanovich. They are being used for entertainment purposes solely, and no financial profit is being made off of this fic. Please do not sue—I am a poor librarian, still living at home with my parents.

A HUGE thank you to Julie for the time and effort she spent providing this fic with her excellent beta reading skills! You rock! :)

I'd taken to doing surveillance on Stephanie's building, since the word on the street from the few cops I still trusted was that she had no idea what she was doing and had seriously angered Benito Ramirez. Enough to warrant his wrath, which took on the form of hanging the body of a prostitute he'd brutally raped and assaulted on her fire escape. I'd lain low during the morning, heard the police and ambulances as they rushed into Steph's building, then disappeared outside of her building to take the assault victim to the hospital.

No word as to whether she'd make it, but I had found out from some cop friends, ones who still believed in my innocence, that her name was Lula and she'd been seen talking to Stephanie about Ramirez.

I waited until all signs of the cops were gone before heading into her building. The lock-even with the deadbolt installed-was all too easy to pick. No doubt, Steph had installed the deadbolt after my last visit to her apartment, not realizing that it could easily be picked.

I stepped inside her apartment and took a minute to take everything in.

The apartment looked like the set of a crime TV series like Law and Order SVU or CSI. Blood was everywhere. Blood from Lula, who I'd heard was receiving treatment at the hospital but might not make it out of surgery alive.

As much as I hated to think about it, it was almost merciful of Benito Ramirez to hang her body outside of Stephanie's fire escape, rather than just dump here on the street or near some trash bins.

Based on the treatment Lula received at Ramirez's hands, she might still die, regardless of Steph's efforts to save her. At least she'd been found only a few hours after the assault.

Hours, as opposed to days.

Add this to the fact that Lula had probably been unconscious most of the time she'd been hanging on Steph's fire escape, and it was reasonable to think that she hadn't been aware of her pain since the initial attack.

If she died without waking up in the hospital, her pain would soon be behind her.

If not, she faced a long road—physical and emotional—on the way to recovery.

All part of a day's work in the life of a cop, but it didn't get easier over time. Mostly, I grew numb to the images of blood from assault victims. Steph's apartment was no harder to face than most of the other ones I'd been in since becoming a cop.

If anything, it was easier because Lula's body was absent from the scene. What remained was the aftermath of the aftermath of an attack, which was all on the milder side to a Trenton cop.

It would have been harder if I'd known Lula, or had even met her before. Lula was just a name of a woman who'd been a prostitute, probably because she'd seen no other options in her life. It was the name of a woman who may or may not be alive at this moment.

Well, I might not have known Lula, but I sure knew Stephanie Plum. We'd grown up together. I'd been someone her parents had told her to stay away from, but Stephanie wasn't one to take orders from anyone. At age six, she'd happily followed me into my father's garage to play Choo Choo.

We'd seen each other occasionally growing up, but I assumed that once her mother found out about Choo Choo, she made more of an effort to keep us separated.

Even so, ten years later, she'd just as willingly—if not more so—agreed to be the one to remove her virgin status.

The next interaction, two years later, hadn't been quite so pleasant. Still miffed that I had taken off after having sex with her, Steph had broken my leg with her father's Buick. It must have had been "that time of the month".

Since then, our relationship was more or less average between two adults. I wouldn't give her a ticket if I saw her car going ten miles per hour above the speed limit. She refrained from seeking me out to inflict bodily harm.

Okay, so I wouldn't say we would exchange pleasantries if we passed each other on the street or met at the same market. More likely than not, one of us would look the other way until the other passed in an effort to pretend we hadn't seen each other.

I looked at this as unfortunate. As a teenager, I'd sort of harbored feelings for Stephanie Plum, but was smart enough to know that our families would stage an intervention if I did something conventional like ask her out on a date. My mother turned a blind eye to my sexual exploits—all my brothers had been the same way, and wasn't it a known fact that Morelli men were wild like that?—but there was a world of difference between having consensual sex with a girl your own age and _dating_ a "nice girl" like Stephanie Plum.

Morellis knew where to draw the line.

My flirting with Stephanie at the Tasty Pastry days before enlisting in the navy had been a pitiful attempt to go against those rules I'd grown up with. I hadn't come into the bakery actively seeking sex with Stephanie Plum, just a chance to see her and talk with her before I left. As I said, I sort of had a crush on her, but hadn't had the guts to do anything about it. Steph was hot, just like all of the girls I'd been involved with, but she was also innocent and always fighting against the pressure resulting from living in the Burg. I could relate to growing up under that pressure. Just like everyone assumed Stephanie Plum would grow up and get married and become a Burg housewife, they expected me to stay wild and, if I did get married, I would emotionally abuse my wife by having sex with other women.

Neither of us wanted to turn over our lives to what the Burg gossipmongers said would happen to us. Just like Stephanie, I had other ideas for my life that didn't fit in with my family's past.

So, I figured that just talking to Stephanie once before I left couldn't do either of us much harm. Somehow, the talking became flirting, and the flirting became...sex. Fully consensual sex, sure, but I felt guilty afterwards. I told myself that she'd been as eager for it as I was, and that it was the damn Morelli instincts. If the behavior by the male members of my family was instinctual, it was the same instincts that told me to leave a nice girl like Stephanie alone. As a result, our encounter at the Tasty Pastry had been the last one before I joined the navy. I made no contact with her after I left, and the next encounter I'd had with her resulted in a broken leg.

I still looked at both memories almost fondly, and my crush on Stephanie never really went away. She'd been off limits during her brief marriage to Dickie Orr, but she quickly saw the light and divorced the cow turd before the one year anniversary date arrived. Now, she was technically available, but apparently very turned off to the male population.

I felt a twinge of guilty over this, knowing I'd probably contributed to this philosophy.

Over the years, I'd kept up to date with the Burg gossip, and the news about her was nearly nonexistent. She'd married—and dumped—the cheating lawyer who was going on to become moderately successful in getting women and making money. She'd worked at some lingerie company until its connections with the mob became well known, as opposed to mere rumors.

Now, apparently, she was trying her hand at bounty hunting.

Ordinarily, this would have nothing to do with me, but I had the luck of being her first FTA.I didn't know much about her financial circumstances beforehand, but a close walk through of her apartment while trying to assess the damage caused by Ramirez showed that she was in pretty dire circumstances. Her living room consisted of a lamp and a single chair. No couch, no TV, no table to put food in case company came over. Maybe she'd owned all of these things at one point, but what remained was an empty room. The other rooms were also pretty bare.

No wonder Stephanie had been pursuing me so aggressively. My hundred thousand dollar bail bond would net her ten thousand dollars, which was not a small amount of money to anyone in the Burg. I suspected that she considered it a small fortune.

After the initial walk through, I set about cleaning the place up. I worked on the walls and floors first, those being the most evident. The carpets were another story entirely, and I knew that they'd need professional cleaning. I hoped Stephanie's building expenses would take care of that.

There had to be some sort of rule about that in an apartment lease contract. "If, through no fault of the renter, there is found to be gross amounts of base substances in the carpets, the owner will take full financial responsibility for removing the aforesaid substances."

Something like that.

Since the whole purgation process didn't take a lot of mental concentration, my thoughts tended to drift towards the person whose apartment I was cleaning. Stephanie and I had met face to face a few times since she'd decided to pursue me as an FTA. I'd saved her ass when she'd been stupid enough to visit the gym where Ramirez practiced, nearly getting herself assaulted and making an enemy out of Ramirez.

Instead of thanking me for my consideration, she stole my car at the next available opportunity. At the time, I'd been seriously ticked off about this. Not just because she had the nerve to steal my car, but that she'd thought of doing so-and pretty much gotten away with it-less than one week into beginning her career gig as a bounty hunter.

At first, I'd been seriously riled up about this theft, but now, most of the anger was gone and I had to admit that her actions indicated that she had spunk. Anyway, our next meeting had been intentional. I'd broken into her apartment to demand the distributor cap to my car.

It hadn't been good timing for either of us, because she'd been in the bathroom.

Looking back on the day, I probably would have done more to get the cap back had I waited in her living room or kitchen until Steph finished her shower and gotten dressed for bed. Instead, I'd stupidly gone into her bathroom while she was naked and, when she wouldn't give me the information I wanted, had handcuffed her to her shower rod.

Probably not my smartest move.

In my defense, I gave Stephanie her portable phone so she could call someone for help, but she probably would have appreciated it more if I'd unlocked the cuffs. This didn't seem like a good idea at the time. I thought that releasing Steph from the handcuffs while I was still in her bathroom would have meant risking her tackling me and dragging me into the police station then and there, both actions I wouldn't put past her.

The next time I'd seen Stephanie, I'd thrown her keys into a dumpster, expecting her to give up the chase once and for all. Women aren't good with being waist deep in garbage, and I thought it might cause Stephanie to give her new career choice some serious consideration.

No such luck. Stephanie Plum was still out to get me, and I was afraid that she'd get herself killed in the process.

In spite of everything, I liked her, and _really_ didn't want to see her die on my account.

All death is horrible, but it really sucks when someone young gets killed for acting crazy. I decided that enough was enough, and propose that we'd work together. She'd still get her ten thousand dollars when I agreed to turn myself in, but we'd be working on my terms. Not that it was solely an ego thing. The charges that I faced were bogus, and if I could just locate the missing witness, I knew that everything would be dropped and I'd be fully reinstated. Hell, they'd probably pay me for the time I'd had to be on the run.

Stephanie was not exactly skilled at her newfound profession, but she'd proven difficult to work around.

I guess the saying "if you can't beat them, join them" applied here.

It was early afternoon by the time I'd done everything I could for the apartment, and I wondered when Steph would be returning from the hospital. I wondered if Lula had woken up yet, or if she'd be pronounced dead before the end of the day. Steph would probably be home sometime that night, and she'd be hungry. I did an inspection of her refrigerator but, like everything else in this place, its contents were pretty sparse. The only items in ample supply were peanut butter, white bread, olives, and hamster pellets. The last item was probably for the pet she kept in her kitchen.

I took a minute to glance at the hamster, who was staring at me bug eyed.

"I'm just cleaning up her apartment. Then, I'll make her dinner," I told him/her.

The hamster stared at me disapprovingly.

"So...how is it living with a crazy person?" I joked.

No response.

"Right. Well, nice chatting with you, too."

I located a spare set of keys, locked up, and headed to a small market well outside the confines of the Burg. Good thing I still had plenty of cash on me. Living as a fugitive meant you couldn't use credit cards without drawing attention as to your whereabouts. I hoped that this would change for the better before long. Just in case, I always wore dark sunglasses in public places like supermarkets.

I had no idea what Stephanie's favorite foods were, but I figured that I couldn't go wrong with a traditional steak dinner. I picked out a few potatoes as side dishes, some vegetables for toppings and the salad, and a bottle of wine so she'd be able to relax during the meal. If I was lucky, she wouldn't try to shoot me or gas me with pepper spray before I began my proposition. I headed back to her apartment and started cooking everything, with the exception of the steaks. Potatoes look awhile to cook, and salad was something that just needed to be chopped and served in a bowl, but steak never tasted as good reheated, and I suspected that my ability to win her cooperation would depend—at least in part—with how good of a meal I was able to prepare.

Once this was finished, I did a lot of pacing. Periodically, I checked Stephanie's bedroom window to see if her—no, _my_—car was in sight. I assumed that she'd taken my car down to the hospital and would return with it. Finally, around 6:30, I saw her emerge from Eddie Gazarra's car. As I dashed for the kitchen and started the steaks, I realized that he must have driven her there that morning. Or, maybe, she'd gotten a ride in the ambulance.

My instincts were off due to the stress of the last week.

They must have stayed in the parking lot for awhile, because the steaks were almost finished by the time I heard the apartment door unlock.

I took a deep breath, enjoying the scent of the food, and waited for all hell to break loose.

"Hello?"

Her voice was tentative, and I guessed that Steph had her gun out. "Who's here?"

I feigned confidence as I walked out of the kitchen to greet her. "Just me." I eyed the gun. "Put the gun away. We need to talk."

I seriously doubted that Stephanie would actually listen to me, but I wanted to make it clear from the start that I didn't want to be her enemy.

"Jesus!" she swore. "You are so fucking arrogant. Did it ever occur to you that I might shoot you with this gun?"

Of course it had. That's why I'd asked her to put it away, instead of trying to wrench it from her hands.

"No," I replied sardonically. "It never occurred to me."

She glared at me, hands on hips. "I've been practicing," Stephanie informed me. "I'm a pretty good shot."

Yet she still left her front door open. Didn't she know anything? Hell, Ramirez could be right behind her as we argued! Okay, it was pretty unlikely, but still. I wasn't about to risk it.

I stepped in front of Steph and closed the door, locking it for good measure. Her face hardened.

"Yeah," I said, replying to her statement. "I'll bet you're hell on wheels blasting the shit out of those paper men."

She glared at me, and we were silent for a moment. I figured that if we didn't get this conversation wrapped up soon, I'd burn our dinners and possibly set the place on fire.

Not the best way to convince her to help me.

"What are you doing in my apartment?" Steph finally asked me.

What did it look like I was doing? "I'm cooking dinner." We headed back to the kitchen, and I finished cooking the steaks. "Rumor has it you've had a tough day."

She didn't answer, and I knew that standing like I was, I was presenting myself as a target. Stephanie was probably contemplating shooting me. Not fatally—bounty hunters weren't supposed to kill their FTAs, despite the "dead or alive" saying associated with the field. I figured that Steph would just want to incapacitate me so she could drag me in.

Knowing her, literally drag me in.

"You don't want to shoot an unarmed man," I cautioned her, still facing the stove. "The state of New Jersey frowns on that sort of thing. Take it from someone who knows."

A word from the wise.

From the corner of my eye, I could see Stephanie lower her gun slightly, and I knew I'd won. She might still be considering spraying me with pepper spray, but my cooking had to smell good, and I imagined that she must be tired. If I could just persuade her to eat and listen to what I had to say, I stood a good chance of leaving her apartment unharmed. I noticed that she was inhaling the smells from the kitchen appreciatively, and she kept eyeing the pan with the steaks and fried vegetables. At one point, she ran her tongue over her lips.

All good signs.

I added some seasoning and waited for her to speak, but she didn't. When I turned to face Steph again, I could see that her stance indicated weariness and she looked all around upset.

"You want to talk about it?" I asked gently.

"Ramirez almost killed Lula and hung her on my fire escape," she murmured.

I told her what I thought about Ramirez and what he liked to do to women. She put her handbag on the kitchen counter, seeming nonplussed. Probably, she knew everything I'd told her.

"I know. He's very large on mutilation and begging. In fact, you might say he's obsessed with it."

I turned the heat from the stove off. "I'm trying to scare you," I admitted, "but I don't think it's working."

"I'm all scared out," she admitted, voice going soft. "I don't have any more scare left in me. Maybe tomorrow." She looked around the kitchen and realized the absence of blood. "Did you scrub the kitchen?"

"The kitchen and the bedroom," I confirmed. "You're going to have to have your carpet professionally cleaned."

She gave a brief nod at my suggestion and scanned the room appreciatively. "Thank you. I wasn't looking forward to seeing more blood today."

"Was it bad?" I asked, meaning Lula. Assuming that Lula had woken up that afternoon.

Well, Steph _had_ said that Ramirez had almost killed Lula, so I guess I should have been able to infer that Lula was still alive.

Steph nodded. "Yeah," she told me, her voice barely over a whisper. "Her face is battered almost beyond recognition and she was bleeding…everywhere." She seemed to choke on her words and just stared at the floor. "Shit," she murmured.

I'd have liked to give her a hug, but given that things were still unsettled between us, that would have to wait. She'd probably refuse any physical affection I tried to show her.

Best to just have Steph sit down and try to get her to eat something.

"I have wine in the refrigerator. Why don't you trade in that gun for a couple glasses?" I offered.

"Why are you being nice to me?" she asked in the same low voice.

There were plenty of reasons. Not withstanding the fact that she'd obviously had a rough day and didn't need me making things any worse for her, I felt horrible about the way I'd treated her over the past few days. I wanted to make up for the way I'd acted when we'd grown up together. I _liked_ her.

Not that I could say all of this. Not right away.

"I need you," I began.

She stiffened. "Oh boy."

"Not that way," I countered, trying not to smile.

Not while I was a fugitive, at any rate. Plenty of time for that after we got everything resolved.

"I wasn't thinking 'that way,'" she retorted. "_All_ I said was oh boy." She looked around the kitchen, no doubt wondering where the good smells were coming from. "What are you making?" she asked, tone softening.

"Steak," I replied. "I put it in when you pulled into the parking lot." I poured the wine and handed her a glass. "You're living a little…Spartan…here."

She took a seat at the table, as though she couldn't handle talking about _this_ while standing up. "I lost my job and I couldn't get another," she explained. "I sold off my furniture to keep going," she added, sounding stoic, but I caught her taking a look around the almost empty living room.

The need to give Steph a hug was almost overpowering, but I controlled myself. It hurt to know that everything I'd suspected upon seeing how she lived was turning out to be right.

"That's when you decided to work for Vinnie?" I confirmed.

Her face tightened. "I didn't have a lot of options," she affirmed.

"So, you're after me for the money," I said, making sure I understood everything correctly. "It's nothing personal."

Like, oh, more revenge for sleeping with her and then writing about it on the sub shop and the stadium wall. Okay, so it was fourteen years later, but some women never know when to quit. I mean, it's not like there's a statute of limitations on a woman's wrath, as I'd found out when she broke my leg with the Buick.

Steph took a moment to consider this. "In the beginning it wasn't."

Oh, great.

I began assembling the food, hoping the smell of it would distract Stephanie. I selected two plates, put a steak on each, and added some peppers and onions. Belatedly, I realized I should have asked Steph if she wanted different toppings—or no toppings—on hers, but what was done was done. She could always remove the peppers and onions if she didn't like them.

I went to the oven, removed the two baked potatoes, and added them to the plates. Once I assembled the necessary condiments and turned off the oven, I asked the question I knew Steph was expecting me to ask, even though I was fairly certain that I knew the answer.

"Why is it personal now?"

She gaped at me like she couldn't believe I was _that_ stupid. "You chained me to the shower rod!" she accused. Before I could say anything about that, maybe apologize, Stephanie plunged ahead. "_Then_, you made me go rooting around in a Dumpster to get my keys!" I really did want to speak here, but she wouldn't let me get a word in edgewise. "Every time I catch up to you, you do everything possible to humiliate me!"

The last part seemed a little over the top, but I could appreciate where Stephanie was coming from. This upcoming conversation should have taken place during our first encounter, but I'd been too stubborn. Still, if Steph felt that she'd suffered unfairly during the last week, she should know that it hadn't exactly been smooth sailing for me.

"They weren't your keys," I snapped at her. "They were _my_ keys." I took a sip of wine to have something to do. "_You_ stole _my_ car."

We locked eyes for a minute. Steph was the first to turn away.

"I had a plan," she muttered.

I took another sip of wine. "You were going to snag me when I came after my car?"

It seemed a little too obvious, but Steph _was_ new to bounty hunting. It would have been funny if it hadn't been my car. Okay, so it still was pretty funny.

"Something like that," she amended.

I carried my plate over to the kitchen table. "I hear Macy's has openings for makeover ladies," I offered.

It might not pay as well as capturing me, but it was a lot safer.

Stephanie practically snorted. "You sound like my mother," she accused, but a smile played on her lips.

I just grinned and began eating. If Steph had any reservations about my attempting to poison her, I hoped that this would show her that the food was safe. Already seated, Steph removed a knife and fork and began to cut into her steak. I finished my food well before she did, even though I kept sneaking looks at her while she ate. She seemed to be enjoying the meal, eating every bit of steak ravenously and consuming most of the baked potato before I'd even started on mine. I loved that she ate the meal with such gusto. I felt an inappropriate amount of pride, far more than the situation called for, that she liked my cooking. She finished her wine and relaxed in her chair, giving me the once over. I waited for Stephanie to speak, and she did.

"What do you need from me?"

I noticed that her tone was relatively neutral, as though we were talking about the weather or she was reacting to the fact that we were out of a specific brand of peanut butter. The thought unnerved me. We were barely communicating without fighting, and I was thinking of us living together? I couldn't be sure that I'd even gain her cooperation that evening.

I phrased my response carefully. "Cooperation," I began. "_And_ in return for that cooperation, I'll see to it that you collect your bounty money."

I could practically see Steph's eyes change into dollar signs. No doubt calculating all the things she could buy with ten thousand dollars, and how putting up with me in the meantime seemed like a small price to pay. Honestly, I would have liked for Steph to say yes because she actually wanted to help me, but what had I done to deserve that? Nothing good, I'll admit.

"You've got my attention," Steph blurted out, almost too quickly.

I smiled and explained about Carmen Sanchez and my theory behind her disappearance.

When I finished with the part about Ziggy's gun seeming to miss, Steph spoke up immediately.

"How could he have missed you at such close range?" she demanded. "And, _if_ he missed you, where'd the bullet go?"

All good questions. Ones that had kept me awake at night more than once. Steph might be rash, but she was pretty smart. She had a knack for this job. Except, if she didn't watch out, she'd get herself (and me) killed.

"The only explanation I can come up with," I replied, slowly, "is that the gun misfired."

It sounded like a lame defense, one I probably wouldn't buy if I was on a jury. Sure, I had no prior record with getting into trouble with the law, but my family's history would pretty much condemn me before the trial even began. Poor Joe Morelli, people would think. He tried to escape his family's history of alcohol and abuse and violence by becoming a cop, but sure enough, it caught up with him in the end. Such a shame. The Burg would have a field day with this.

That's why I needed to find my missing witness. Someone who would lend credibility to my story. Make the jury think twice before determining I was guilty. Because, really, I had acted stupidly by going to Carmen's house on my own, but my actions were far from illegal. Far from morally wrong. I'd shot Ziggy in self defense, except he wasn't around to confirm this. My ass was on the line-big time.

It didn't help that Steph was the one assigned to bring me in. Or that she clearly needed every penny of the ten thousand dollars. After what I'd seen in her apartment, it was clear that the money would seriously improve her standard of living. I felt more guilty than ever for having taken out my frustration with Stephanie on her apartment during my previous visit. I hadn't broken or destroyed anything, but I sure hadn't been kind. It was time that I started looking out for her more. Next time I came over, I'd bring dinner.

Maybe a Pinos pizza.

Stephanie considered my story for a few minutes. "And now...you want to find Carmen so Carmen can back up your story."

She phrased it like a statement, but I could hear the uncertainty in her voice.

"I don't think Carmen's going to be backing up anyone's story," I admitted. "My guess is she was beaten up by Ramirez, and Ziggy and his pal were sent to finish the job. Ziggy did all Ramirez's dirty work."

Stephanie considered this, and I decided to reiterate how dangerous Ramirez was towards women. I concluded my speech with there only being one door to Carmen's bedroom and how no one actually saw her leave. Body or otherwise.

"You think...Carmen was pitched out the window?" she pondered, crossing and uncrossing her arms.

Her face looked anxious, with her eyebrows wrinkled in concentration.

Anything was possible, but that was my guess as well. I didn't want to think of Carmen's body had disappeared in a trash bag. Possibly cut up in smaller pieces. I took my plate to the kitchen and began to make us some coffee.

"I'm looking for the guy who recognized me," I explained. "Ziggy dropped the gun when he hit the floor. I saw it skitter to the side. When I got hit from behind, Ziggy's partner _must_ have taken the gun, slipped off into the bedroom, dumped Carmen out the window, and followed her.

"I've been back there," Steph protested. "It's a long drop if you're not dead."

I shrugged for the umpteenth time. "Maybe he was able to slide through the crowd hovering over Ziggy and me. Then, he went out the back door, collected Carmen, and drove off."

I watched Steph's face. She was seriously considering the truthfulness of what I was saying, which was good. It was important-vital even-that she believed me.

"I want to hear about the part about me getting the $10,000," she told me.

I nearly burst out laughing at that. For a woman, Steph sure was occupied with the specifics. Maybe she had a chance in the bounty hunter gig after all.

"You help me prove I shot Kulesza in self-defense, and I'll let you bring me in," I offered.

Steph raised her eyebrows. "I can hardly wait to hear I'm going to do this."

I explained my attempts to watch Ramirez in order to locate the missing witness, but how my current status as FTA made that difficult.

"Why would I _want_ to help you? Why don't I just use the opportunity to turn you in?"

Because I wouldn't let her.

"Because I'm innocent."

"That's your problem, not mine."

But I could tell that she didn't really believe it. Steph's eyed had softened, slightly, when I told her I was innocent. She didn't exactly look me in the eye when she claimed that my situation with proving my innocence was my problem to deal with. It was clear that Steph was beginning to realize that I wasn't the real problem, and that turning me in wouldn't help Carmen in the long run. There was a much bigger issue at stake, and Steph wanted it resolved.

Not that she'd say any of this.

"Then, let's up the ante for you," I suggested. "While you're helping me find my witness, I'll be protecting you from Ramirez."

I half expected Steph to say that she could take care of herself, but to my surprise, she didn't. Good. She had _some_ sense.

"What happens when Dorsey picks up Ramirez and I no longer need your protection?" she goaded.

I wanted to shake my head at this logic. Ramirez might go to jail for a day or two, but no woman would testify against him, and without witnesses, the police couldn't keep him locked up forever. But maybe Steph didn't realize this, or overestimated Lula's power to persuade a jury. _If _Lula even agreed to testify against the man who had nearly killed her. She must know that if Ramirez got out, he'd go after Lula, and there would definitely be a "next time", and she sure wouldn't leave the scene alive.

"Ramirez will be out on bail and twice as hungry." I paused, then added, "He has some powerful friends."

Steph eyed me critically. "And how are you going to protect me?"

What she wasn't saying was that I was a fugitive, and while I might have a gun and be pretty good in a fight, she'd have just as much luck with Gazarra or another cop. More, even.

"I'm going to guard your body, Sweet Cakes."

I noticed her nose wrinkle slightly at the nickname, and made a mental note not to use it again.

"You're _not_ sleeping in my apartment."

Probably, she said this because she didn't have a couch, and my only option would be sleeping on the floor. Steph would never let me anywhere near her bed. What she didn't realize was that my van was so uncomfortable to sleep in that sleeping on her floor would be preferable.

Well, one step at a time.

"I'll sleep in the van," I reassured her. Well, I would that night. "Tomorrow, I'll wire you up for sound."

"What about tonight?"

Was she teasing me? Hell, one minute she was practically kicking me out of her apartment, the next minute she was afraid of what would happen once I was gone. Steph couldn't have it both ways!

"It's your decision," I told her. "_Probably_ you'll be okay. My guess is Ramirez wants to play with you a while. This is like a fight for him. He's going to want to go all ten rounds."

I could see the wheels turning in her brain as her head nodded, almost imperceptibly, in agreement.

"Even if I wanted to help you, I wouldn't know where to begin," she claimed, as though she were some delicate Barbie doll. "What could I do you haven't already done? Maybe the witness is in Argentina ."

I half expected Steph to bat her eyes while she spewed this crap. Couldn't she just accept that we were now on the same side? Was she having second thoughts?

I told Steph that the witness probably wasn't in Argentina , that he was currently out there killing people, and that I was one of his intended victims. Then, Steph's eyes became hard with calculation. It must have occurred to her that I might be trying to use her as a means of getting information from Ramirez, and I knew that all hell was about to break loose—again.

"You're going to use me as bait!" She snapped. "You're going to dangle me in front of Ramirez and expect me to extract information from him while he's coaching me on his torture techniques!" She just stared at me, waiting for me to deny this, but I wasn't going to lie to Steph. Not when it would be so obvious that I was lying. She continued on her rant. "Jesus, Morelli, I know you're pissed because I scored you with the Buick, but don't you think this is carrying revenge too far?"

Well, that just showed how little she knew about me. As far as I was concerned, the incident with the Buick was in the past, and after I'd written those poems about her on the sandwich shop and the stadium wall, I'd long since come to the conclusion that I had completely deserved it. I was more than willing to let bygones be bygones, but Steph was the one who kept bringing it up.

"It's not revenge," I reassured her. "The truth is...I like you." I smiled at her, and she didn't look away. On the other hand, she didn't exactly melt into my arms. "If circumstances were different, I might even try to right some past wrongs."

Her response surprised me. "Oh boy," she said wearily.

I resisted the urge to pull Stephanie into a hug. She'd probably try to punch me.

"I can see when this is all over, we're going to have to do something about that streak of cynicism you've acquired," I told her in what I hoped was a gentle yet sexy tone.

Steph just stared at me. "You're asking me to put my life on the line to help save _your_ ass," she reminded me, as though she wasn't already in danger.

"Your life," I told her bluntly, "is already on the line. You're being stalked by a very large man who rapes and mutilates women. _If_ we can find my witness, we can link him to Ramirez and, hopefully, put both of them away for the rest of their unnatural lives."

Steph didn't argue with me, so I decided to turn the subject to logistical matters.

"I'll put a bug in your foyer and bedroom, and I'll be able to hear throughout your apartment, with the exception of your bathroom," I promised. "If you close the bathroom door, I _probably_ won't be able to hear." I waited for her to say something, but she didn't, so I continued. "When you go out, we'll hide a wire under your shirt, and I'll follow at a distance."

I wanted to tell her I'd do everything I could to keep her safe, but the words wouldn't form.

Steph inhaled deeply. "And you'll let me collect the finder's fee on you when we get the missing witness?"

"Absolutely," I promised.

I could handle anything that followed once we had that part taken care of.

Well, no, not anything. I still had reservations about what would happen to my career since I'd been evading the law for this long. But if Steph was able to put everything aside and help me find the missing witness, I could honor my promise to her.

Even if she hadn't promised to work with me, I still would have done anything I could to protect her. Hell, I cared about Stephanie Plum. A lot. I didn't want to think about Ramirez hurting her the way he had Lula. Or her ending up like Carmen. It was too terrible to think about.

"You said Carmen was an informant," Steph reminded me. "What sort of stuff was she informing about?"

"She sold whatever scraps came her way. Mostly low-level drug stuff and names of posse members. I don't know what she had for me when she called. I never got it," I added.

"Posse members?" Steph questioned, clearly unfamiliar with the police lingo.

"Jamaican gang members." I gave her some more information about Striker, it being the current posse. They sold heroin in Trenton and made the mob look tame.

"You think Carmen had information on Striker?" Stephanie wondered, finishing the last of her coffee. She'd been letting it sit for so long, it was a wonder she didn't make a face when she tasted it.

I watched her for a minute before replying. "No. I think she had something to tell me about Ramirez. She probably picked something up while she was with him."

I didn't mean STDs, and she knew it. She took a moment to digest the information, then nodded, almost like she was dismissing the conversation.

"I need sugar," she decided, standing up from the table. "There's some ice cream in the freezer if you want some."

It had been awhile since I'd had ice cream. I couldn't keep cold stuff in my van for too long without it melting or becoming rotten. Mostly, I lived off of canned foods.

"Ice cream sounds good."

Steph left the table and returned a few minutes later with two bowls practically overflowing with mint chocolate chip ice cream. It was the good kind with chunks of brownies and cookies in it. My stomach, which had been nice and full up to this point, was now growling at the site of the ice cream.

It occurred to me that in a normal social situation, we'd probably have moved the bowls to her living room and had dessert on the couch, watching some prime time TV. This might have still happened, except Stephanie only had that one chair, and no TV. I wouldn't have minded eating on the floor, but I didn't know how to bring up the topic of switching to another room, and Steph didn't seem to mind staying in one place. I decided to keep my mouth shut. Except to enjoy the ice cream.

Maybe, after this was all over and Steph had the money to buy some furniture, we'd sit together on her new couch as we polished off dessert. I could almost imagine myself holding Steph close to me, a Stephanie now relaxed because she knew she was safe with me. Knew I'd do just about anything to protect her.


End file.
